


Idleness Is Your Trouble

by maybemalapert (laconicisms)



Series: A Floating Spar to Men That Sink [2]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: AU after episode 1x09, Corporal Punishment, F/M, Femdom, God's A+ Parenting, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 09:57:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10874394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laconicisms/pseuds/maybemalapert
Summary: Lucifer miscalculates, and Chloe hits a sore spot, both literally and figuratively.Companion piece to "Past Resolution's Power" from Lucifer's point of view.





	Idleness Is Your Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> All the love to my beta, geckoholic. ♥  
> Title taken from a translation of Catullus' 51st poem, "He seems equal to a god".

He is startled when he feels the first swat, so much so that _getting away_ isn't even a thought that registers. He is just suddenly no longer lying across her lap.

_Bloody buggering fuck._

Embarrassment isn't an emotion he's familiar with, as a rule, so it takes him a moment to identify what it is, which means that it takes him a moment longer before he returns to her, which actually makes him feel even more embarrassed. Clearly, there's something wrong with that. Who came up with this idea?

As he settles himself over her lap once more, gritting his teeth, he resolves to comport himself with more dignity. Less yelping, less moving. Maybe not quite lying there like a dead fish; that wouldn't be fun for either of them, he thinks. When her body shifts, though, he can't help but tense and then she's really having a go at it. Laying into him, reprimanding him, and quite clearly _enjoying_ it, too. The pain starts to build up and thoughts of keeping still and quiet begin to fly out the window, finally plunging out at breakneck speed when she hits a particularly painful spot. He curses, and his detective is a bloody sadist because she aims for the same spot a _second time_.

_'There'll be pain.'_ Hah! He turns to glare at her, offering up a sarcastic apology for his misdemeanours because that is what she wants to hear. The devil never apologises. The devil _has no regrets._ (Hilarious, in retrospect.)

The smile she gives him in return is positively demonic, terrifying. He might adore it just a little if he weren't at the receiving end of it and if she _weren't poking the spot she'd previously aimed at_ , for dad's sake.

He does like giving his partners what they desire, which is the only -- _the only_ \-- reason that he assures her that he meant what he said.

'Thirteen more to go,' she says. They're at the halfway point. How are they only at the halfway point? He closes his eyes. His arse is smarting, but that poke has merely been a warning, he's sure, and she has what she wants, will not be quite as… harsh now. Then also, there is this: he simply doesn't want her to stop. Yes, it hurts, but this is new, and he likes new, and he is greedy, and this is _different_. The only pain he's ever experienced had been at the hands of… had never been in this kind of setting. Millions of years of lived experience, five years in the human realm, trying every kinky he thing he's ever heard about, and he's never felt _this_. Mortality is fascinating. Like hell is he going to call a halt to the proceedings.

Her arm moves, and she isn't easing up at all. He thinks at first that she is, but he is so very wrong.

The pain crests and he's gripping the sheets, breathing harshly, gasping as if he really needed air to survive (maybe he does now).

And then she bloody pauses, and that's. That's. He bites back a snarl, bites back, 'Don't put me on the rack, darling,' because he's the devil and he knows it isn't comparable and she isn't Mazikeen and he isn't one of the souls in his demon's torture chamber, but he wants this to be _over with_. (Months down the line, after Mum, after _Uriel_ , he'll remember this and it will make him do something either incredibly stupid or the only smart thing he could have done; he won't know until much later.)

His pride is confused inside his head. Is it giving in to tell her to stop? Is it giving in to tell her to just get it over with? He doesn't know; he only knows he has to say something for the tension -- not apprehension, not that -- tightens his shoulders and makes it hard to breathe. 

So he does speak, and it isn't until he hears himself tell her to _get the hell on with it_ that he learns what he has decided upon, and it seems his mind is still on board with this venture even if his arse isn't. 

It hurts, it really does, and he cannot restrain himself enough not to make noises, not to gasp. He buries his face into his arm, bites his lip, tastes blood. He has been in worse pain, he thinks, _back then_. He can take this.

He did in fact endure it right to the end, and he's sliding off her lap and that _hurts_ and it should be over. It _should be_ , but then she starts saying that he has done well and that _she's proud of him_ , and there's something in his throat, making it hard to breathe, making it hard to _be_ and he bites his lip harder, so he won't say a word for his voice is going to crack and he does not want her to hear.

All of it, every last piece of it, feeds into the pain in his arse and feeds into whatever is threatening to spill over inside his very heart, and the devil does not cry, but Lucifer Morningstar does.

He doesn't notice at first because it hadn't been a constant litany, but she stops saying… saying that he is good, that he has done well. And when has someone ever said that about him? When? But she stops, and he's glad for it because he was so close to _something_ , a frightful something that his mind shies away from. Then there is a hand on his arm and he finds that he is weeping -- _'It's over. Hush, it's over_.' Her hand in his hair. He swallows, tries to get a grip. Hell is much worse than this. _And why is he crying?_

A question for Linda, he thinks. (But the thought drifts away, won't return for several hours, and by then he'll be worried about something else.)

And then she's drawing back, rising, leaving. She is walking to the bathroom, and he follows her with his eyes -- _proud. 'I'm proud of you.'_ \-- until she returns and presses a flannel against his face. It feels good, as if his skin were soaking up the water. 

_'I'm proud of you.'_

He bites back a gasp.

No.

This is wrong.

He reaches out, stops her hand, dredges up a witty remark from somewhere. He does not feel particularly witty at the moment.

She replies in kind, and… he cannot take this. Everything about this situation is wrong. No one is ever proud of him. He is the family disappointment. He is not -- taken care of? Held? _Comforted?_ \-- once he has transgressed. This is _wrong_ , and it needs to stop.

He does not flee. It is merely a strategic retreat. The detective follows, alarm and confusion radiating off her, but he ignores both, strides -- wincing -- away. He needs a drink. He needs several. The whole bar, if he is honest.

Of course, she would be stubborn. It is one of her defining traits, one he likes, usually, but at this very moment it is very inconvenient. It takes much longer for her to lose her patience with him, too, but she does, finally, face flushed from anger, hands clenching at her side.

He watches her leave from behind the bar, glass of whiskey held firmly in hand. He imagines her going down, leaving the lift, crossing through the club. He drifts towards the balcony, just as she must be getting into her car, must be starting the engine. Must be driving away.

There's a tingle, a flush of cold washing across his arse, and his healing kicks in.

The _detective_ has left, and his immortality returns like a repentant lover. 

He fumbles with the glass, sits it down on the railing, mind flashing to all the instances when he was mortal, when he knew for sure he was mortal. 

Only with her, only ever in her presence.

She can hurt him. The thought creeps into his head, into his heart, and settles like a poisonous snake. She can hurt him, she makes him vulnerable, mortal.

_It's dangerous,_ Mazikeen's voice whispers in his mind. _You're the Lord of Hell. This is dangerous, and now that you know what is causing this, you should keep your distance._

_But I do not know for sure_ , he thinks and not _I do not want it to be true_ , which would be more honest. (He thinks it later. Many times over the course of the following week.)

\--

The next day, he joins the detective for work once more, knife in hand, cutting into his skin, and when he starts to bleed, his face goes numb and so does his heart.


End file.
